


Wolfhound

by the_Redfox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 19,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Redfox/pseuds/the_Redfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only later that he thought the whole affair to be quite ironic. It was her refusal to let him save her, which allowed the both of them to keep their heads.</p><p>Currently rewriting</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Garmr (Prologue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain falls, the dog growls, he watches.

  
[Wolfhound](http://kiddosnightmare.deviantart.com/art/Wolfhound-482696123) by [KiddosNightmare](http://kiddosnightmare.deviantart.com/) on [DeviantArt](http://www.deviantart.com)

**Garm**

_And the hound he met,_

_it came from hell._

_Bloody was his chest_

_and wide his open maw,_

_to devour._

_At the father of Songs_

_he howled from afar._

~ Baldr's Draumar ~

 

_~o~0~o~_

 

The dog, a thin old thing, its sharp muzzle gray and scarred, watches him with eyes that are far too bright and observant for an animal. Once it must have been an impressive beast, its shoulders broad under the thinning dark fur and its shaggy back meeting the crone of his head easily, he imagines. 

It’s raining hard and he is cold, his father taking his time talking to the Blacksmith in the forge behind him. He could go inside, he supposes. It will be warm there, but he has no interest in listening to the two men, planning the gift for Gregor’s next name-day. He doesn’t even know what it is… does not want to know. And watching the dog is far more interesting anyway.

Piercing eyes follow his every movement while it sits still as stone and he tries to decide which color they have. Blue? Or Gray like his own? They are pale. So pale that he first thought it was blind. It is a bit eerie and he is suddenly glad for the heavy chain that binds the dog to the opposing wall of the yard. It looks hungry.

Times passes. He watches the dog and the dog watches back. Its collar, dark leather, looks heavy around its thin neck, weighed down by rusty iron. The metal seems brittle and he wonders what kind of Blacksmith would tolerate something like this in his yard, for everybody to see. But he is the only Smith around in miles, so maybe he does not have to worry about putting off potential customers.

His lips are slowly turning blue and the rainwater sinks trough the leather of his boots and just when he thinks, that maybe comparing to the cold, hearing about things he will never own isn’t that bad - he hears them.

There are five of them, all of them boys, all older than him. Around his brother’s age maybe, something that makes him instantly dislike them.

The dog has heard them too, and, for the first time since his arrival in the Smith’s yard, moves to turn its massive head. Something about its expression makes him take a step back until his back brushes against the rough stone wall behind him.

It stares at the village boys, the butcher’s sons, if he remembers correctly, and slowly rises to its feet, its hackles up, even in this downpour. He is a bit pleased to find that he was right. It’s _enormous_. He feels more than that he hears the low growl coming from the dog’s throat and again his eyes stray to the brittle iron of its chain.

The boys are shouting and shoving each other around, laughing when one of them falls into a puddle. The lad curses, hauling a hand full of mud at his brothers. And then he raises his eyes and spots the dog. Suddenly the laughter dies away and everything is eerily quiet.

Rain falls, the dog growls, he watches.

And then the silence is broken.

The only warning he gets is a short flick of its torn ears, then suddenly the dog rears up, fangs bared, hackles raised. Startled, he backs away, but the stone-wall at his back is cold and unyielding. He only understands what is happening when something hits the ground at his feet with a wet smack. Curious he peers down. The object is bigger than his fist, shapeless and full of sharp edges. A stone. They are throwing stones.

The next one finds its target and the dog jumps forward again, but its chain is too short, its tormentors just out of reach. It brings its attack to a violent end, choking its furious snarl and the boys laugh at its desperate struggle, circling it. All the while mindful of the range of its chain. They have done this before, he realizes now.

The dog makes a few more futile attempts and then suddenly it stops, motionless and silent once more. It simply stands there, barely flinches, when another stone hits the mark, its head low.

One could think it has given up, surrendered to the inevitable.

Only he sees the way it leans forward, patiently trying the chain, how it pulls ever so slightly.

Only he sees the iron links tremble, but the chain holds.

It’s his father and the Blacksmith who ends the game with their arrival in the yard. It seems they are done talking for now.

The Blacksmith shouts and curses, the boys laugh and run away and his father gently grabs his arm, fingers curled around the soaked wool just above his elbow, and leads him off to the stables, where the horses are waiting patiently. Just before they enter, the boy throws one last glance over his shoulder. The Smith has gone back inside and the dog is watching him again, pale eyes following his every movement. It still looks hungry.

 _~o~0~o~_  

They come back a few more times in the next two weeks, Gregor’s gift must be something very special and complicated, but he never goes inside to have a look at it. He watches the dog. The dog watches back.

Almost every time the village children are also there, not noticing him in the shadows of the doorway. And every time he watches them throw their stones and sees how the chain stretches taut.

It’s his fifth visit, or maybe his sixth when it happens. It’s raining again and he is leaning against the wall, lips blue and feet wet. The boys are there as well with their stones and their laughter. But something is different today. The dog has not moved at all, even though one of the stones has hit it right across its muzzle earlier. It just stands and… _waits._

The boys are getting impatient, its lack of reaction bores them and so they come closer to get a better aim. Just one step, then another.

And suddenly the yard is filled with screams and blood.

The dog flies past him, and it’s completely silent - no bark, no growl - just pure quiet rage. It’s a bit eerie but strangely, he is not afraid at all.

He only has eyes for the chain, shattered into a hundred little pieces, only hears the song of breaking iron: sharp and shrill, but beautiful.

 _I’m free_ , it sings. _I’m free free free_.

He almost does not notice it when his father grabs his arm, hard and painful, fingers digging into his bare skin just above his elbow, and drags him to the stables, where the horses are whinnying nervously. Just before they enter, he throws one last glance over his shoulder. The Smith is standing in the yard, the boys are lying in the mud, unmoving although he can hear at least two of them scream, and the dog is watching him again, pale eyes following his every movement. It looks at ease.

 

(The next time he visits, about half a year later, he misses half his face and the only boy who survived the game seven of his fingers and a great deal of his right leg. The chain is still lying in the Blacksmiths’ yard, rusty and broken. The dog is gone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a oneshot and then just... got out of hand XD I planned to up it as a 4 Chapter story (prolouge, sandor's view, sansa's view, epilouge)... but thought i would experiment with shorter, but more chapters, changing their view point... Hope I can pull it of, constructive criticism is most welcomed and encouraged.
> 
> As you can see above i was inspired by the northern mythology. It's some kind of headcanon of mine that the old gods are actually our northern gods.. in my mind it works out pretty well, but maybe that's just me ( see below for my rant on that topic xD)
> 
> btw The verses of Baldr's Draumar are a translation by me. I used the german version known to me so it may differs a bit from the official english version.
> 
> -  
> ASoIaF + and all its characters belong to George R. R. Martin, the idea for this piece to me and Garm... well to us all I guess. He's some kind of national treasure^^
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (About northern mythology: For me, there are just so many parallels, you know? I mean, first of all we have Ygdrasil... a fancy parallel to the heart tree (even though it's actually no oak but an ash. But who cares for the details?).  
> Then of course there is good old Fenrir (well, thats a direwolf if i ever saw one, eh?).  
> We have Freya goddess of love, beauty, war and death (aka: the Stark Ladies at their best) And if i remember correctly her name means Lady ).  
> We have Tyr, god of war and truth (who gets his right hand bitten off for breaking an oath...reminds me of someone, you too? Besides the fact that it is Fenrir who bites it off for chaining him up. Ah, and he gets killed by Garm...not that I hape Sandor will finish off Jamie... he's growing on me as the books go on)  
> and then, of course, there is Garm (some say it is just another name for Fenrir, which would also work fine for me. It only underlines, that Hounds and Wolves are not that different after all XD), guarding the way to the netherworld (pretty much like Ceberus...a three headed dog ohh..another possibility *.* )...
> 
> Ahem... i could go on (yupp, im a little little tiny bit obsessed with that...maybe) )


	2. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s raining fire everywhere, green and red alike and he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he has died already and just didn’t notice it yet.

**“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”**

_Dies ist kein Abschied, denn ich war nie willkommen_  
_Will auf und davon und nie wiederkommen_  
_Kein lebe wohl, will euch nicht kennen_  
_Die Stadt muss brenn' (brenn', brenn', brenn')_

 _~_ Ascheregen, Casper _~_

__~o~0~o~_ _

It was only later that he thought the whole affair to be quite ironic. It was her refusal to let him save her, which allowed the both of them to keep their heads.

_~o~0~o~_

He almost breaks his neck in his haste to get away from her. From her and her damn blue eyes, that finally looked up at him and almost made him choke, because she _saw_ . Saw him and for just a moment he thought she understood him as well. But then her fingers touched his face, his _scars_ and there is a thread around his neck, thin as a thread of silk, a hair, a spider’s web. Loose and light. But it tightened, just a little bit, and it scared him, even more than the fire outside, so he did what all dogs do. He fought it.

Eyes blind with tears, - when did he start crying? - he staggers towards the stables, one hand brushing against the wall, when the world seems to topple over. It’s blissfully dark here, the familiar scent of hay and horse stronger than the one of burned flesh and iron and inhaling deeply he considers for an irrational moment to curl up here and just wait ‘till it is all over. But the fear has made its nest here too. The horses that remained here are spooked, he can hear them kick against the walls and whine, their eyes as wide and white as his own. All but one.

Stranger stands in the very last stall, an imposing black shape in the darkness, still as stone. The boxes to his left and right are empty, they always are. It makes him like his horse all the more, that his own kind is scared of him, just like his of him.

Patient the stallion watches him stagger closer and open the door, waits when he fumbles with the stirrups and only flicks an ear, when he throws himself in the saddle. But when his heels dig into his sides the patience is gone and the horse flies forward, carrying him out of the darkness and back into the purgatory he just escaped. His hands clutch the reins, his knuckles white, but he has no control over them. Right now he couldn’t, even if he wanted to, but it doesn’t matter. It isn’t the first time that he allows Stranger to take the commando and the courser faithfully picks its way, striving against the fleeing masses. They ride down everyone who isn’t fast enough to clear a path for him. Soldiers, women, children… it doesn’t’ matter. Right now they are all just part of this madness he wants to leave behind so badly. 

His tears have dried for now, crusting his face with salt and he almost wishes them back, for his sight is clear now once again. He can see it all.  It’s raining fire everywhere, green and red alike and he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he has died already and just didn’t notice it yet. Hell can’t be much worse than this place. No, fuck that. In comparison to this inferno, hell must be a friggin’ paradise. He can feel the heat of the fires, it’s just like he remembers it, but even stronger is the memory of another warmth: a soft lithe body pressed against his not even half an hour ago. He curses and spurs Stranger on, the stallion obediently picking up the pace, tearing through a narrow back street and finally stepping on one of the wide main streets. He doesn’t check which one, it leads away from the fires, away from the Mud Gate, that is all he cares about. However, no matter how fast his horse runs, he can’t escape _her_. His collar is tight and she refuses to let go of the leash she probably does not even know she’s holding.

The gate still seems so far away. The sea of fleeing people does not end and the air around him is filled with screams and smoke and the smell of blood. He struggles to breathe, tasting once more bile in his mouth. However, his stomach is empty and so he urges the horse forward again instead. Indignant, Stranger throws his head back, but obeys. He absently pats his neck with trembling fingers. A silent apology that is rewarded with another burst of speed.  

Around them the battle rages on and its roar is deafening, but he doesn’t listen. His ears are filled with a thin, trembling voice singing a long forgotten melody and the faint smell of lemon, lavender and just a ghost of pepper still lingers in his nose. It’s not enough to soothe his terror, but it lets him keep his sanity, and beggars can’t be choosers.

He already regrets leaving her behind. He should have dragged her out of that bed and take her with him, away from all this madness. She would have been safe with him. Nobody would have harmed her while he was her guard.

 _And who would guard the guardian?_ he thinks, a bitter laugh rising in his throat, a strange sound in the midst of chaos. _You are nothing but a dog and don’t you forget it._

But it’s impossible for them to turn back now anyway. The sea has closed behind him already. Dead bodies and those who are and just don't know it yet blocking the way. 

Why didn’t she come with him? Surely he can’t be worse than Joffrey and her fucking knights? Damn the Seven, what did he ever do to her? He _helped_ her.

For a moment his rage roars louder than his fear and he lets it. He and rage are well acquainted after all, and it’s easier to bear than the disappointment that has crept in his heart without him noticing it, just like _she_ did. Deep down, underneath the fury and the fear and the remains of ale, a part of him suspects, that it was his own fault. She is so fragile and _young_ … it doesn’t take much to scare her. Grown men, _knights_ , have pissed their small-clothes when he held a knife to their throat. And then he remembers her eyes on him. Full of tears but unwavering. Maybe she would have come with him, if he had waited?  No…he hates lying, no point doing it to himself. She never would have.

His line of thought is broken when a gate, he is not even sure which one, appears in front of him and he realizes that the people around them are no longer running towards it, but _away._ The screaming has changed as well, he hears it now, just like the birdsong changes when the cat is out to hunt.

He knows this tune like his own heartbeat and raises his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a quote by William Shakespeare, the lyrics beneath from the Song "Ascheregen" (ash rain) by Casper:
> 
> This is not Goodbye, 'cause I've never been welcome here  
> Want to be up and away and never come back  
> No Farewell, don't wanna know you  
> The City must burn (burn,burn,burn)
> 
> ASoIaF and all its characters belong to George R.R. Martin
> 
> See ya soon, Mag~


	3. Heaven Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is a murderer, a monster. Born out of hate and blood and fire, he could be right out of one of Old Nan’s tales.

**Heaven burns**

_But who am I to say let's all just run away_  
 _Grab your saints and pray and we'll burn this world today_  
 _It's the end of the world_  
 _As in Heaven, as in Earth, weve been dead since our birth_

_Let's watch this city burn_

 

 _~_ City, Hollywood Undead _~_

__~o~0~o~_ _

 

 _“The fetters will burst”_ , she whispered to herself. _“The fetters will burst, and the wolf shall run free.”_

_~o~0~o~_

She regrets her decision as soon as his footsteps have disappeared into the darkness and she stands alone in her room, the sky on fire and the lingering memory of cold steel at her neck.

No, that is not true. She does not regret not going with him. There is no way out for them in this hell. Even the Hound cannot cut down that many men and even if he could… they would come after them, no matter who wins the battle. The Lannisters and Stannis too. The innocent never run, isn’t that how the saying goes?  

And when the lions get them, he will lose his head and she… a strangled whimper escapes her lips and she locks the image away. Stannis will probably be more merciful, but she has learned to dread that word for she knows now how twisted its meaning can be. And even if Stannis welcomes her with open arms… no one will believe her when she says that she came with him of her own free will. No one will care that he cast away his heavy collar before he left. They will kill him. And she does not want the Hound to die. Not even after he hold his dagger to her throat.

She knows it wasn’t him holding the knife, not really. She has seen it in his eyes. 

So, no she does not regret staying behind. But she regrets parting like that. And that thought confuses her, for what he said is true, she thinks. He is a murderer, a monster. Born out of hate and blood and fire, he could be right out of one of Old Nan’s tales. The scary ones Bran used to love, his and Arya’s eyes shining with excitement, while she clutched her blanket tighter and suppressed a shiver.

 _But,_ a voice in the back of mind adds and it sounds feral, almost like a snarl, like _him_ she realizes _, they are_ all _monsters here. One more vicious than the next._

And at least he is not making a secret out of it. He reminds her of it on every opportunity.

Albeit, she has realized long ago, that while the Hound always talks about the most awful things - hate and murder and the joy of killing - he never acts on it, not when it comes to her. Sure, he showed no hesitation to kill _for_ her. The memory of the sound the iron made when it cut through flesh and bone still makes her sick to the stomach. But she also remembers calloused fingers wiping blood away they did not spill and a rough cloak around her bare shoulders when nobody else cared. She can feel herself smile at the irony, for that makes him the exact opposite of everybody else in this town.

He is a steady presence in this ever changing sea of liars, where it is so easy to lose your way… along with your head. His company is never enjoyable, their short conversations can hardly be described as pleasant. But the reason for that is that he tells her, what she needs to hear, not what she wants and, telling her the truth is the kindest thing somebody has done for her in a long time.

She will miss him, she realizes with a start. She will miss the words of advice, faithfully delivered with a growl and a death threat. She will miss the never ending mocking, accompanied by heavy footsteps close behind her when she walks down the corridor that leads towards the throne room. At first frightening but before she knew it a source of reassurance. And most of all she will probably miss those strange, rare moments of surprising gentleness.  

All this time he was the one thing to anchor her and now he is gone and left her behind. It takes her a moment to remember that it was _her_ that refused him.

No, she does not regret to stay behind. But she wishes she could have gone with him. That there had been even a little chance for them. On his own he can make it perhaps. She wishes for that too. 

She wishes he stays alive and goes someplace where the world is not on fire and the wind will carry his rage away.

She prays he does not forget about her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here the next chapter... Sansa is surprisingly hard to write, who would have thought. 
> 
> The Song at the beginning is "City" by Hollywood Undead (I love the Song and it fits... though, more so for Sandor I guess. Anybody a good idea for a more "Sansa-like" one? I had a few, but deleted my playlist, stupid me)
> 
> on a different note... can anybody tell me how to keep y notes from piling up below? cause as far as i'm concerned, the note belonging to the first chapter should only be displayed under the first chapter- and not under every following one as well... or is this just my stupid PC trying to mess with me?


	4. So Naive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannisters were all alive, Joff still sat on the iron throne, she was still to marry him and the Hound was gone.

 

**So naive**

_You're keeping in step_  
 _In the line_  
 _Got your chin held high and you feel just fine_  
 _Cause you do_  
 _What you're told_  
 _But inside your heart it is black and it's hollow and it's cold_

_~_ The Hand That Feeds, Nine Inch Nails _~_

 

_~o~0~o~_

 

It’s just his luck that Stannis had planned another attack at the very Gate he tried to escape through. The Hound cut through everything that had the misfortune to find itself in front of him, blocking his escape route. Foes fell like allies, though, he supposed they were all his enemies now. He felt the familiar rush of battle coursing through his veins, his own heartbeat dictating the rhythm of his blows.

He killed them. He killed them all. But what greeted him when he finally broke through their ranks and made for the Gate was not the free field, surrounding the city, but a wall of cold steel and red and golden banners.

Red and Gold.

Even in his panic and confusion the Hound recognized the golden lion and the face of the man riding under it. Maybe he really was a dog for he instinctively lowered his weapon, years of obedience making it impossible to bite the hand that fed him while Tywin Lannister stared him down.  

He had been a fool to believe that there would be an escape for the likes of him. 

_~o~0~o~_

  
  


Stannis lost the Battle. Of course he did. Sansa felt stupid for thinking, believing, _hoping_ he could win and end her torture. End her torturers. It was a nice dream, dark and cruel and not fit for a Lady, but a nice dream all the same and if she could not be free in her waking hours she at least wanted to decide which dreams to have. Even if they were dark and she felt a little bit guilty for all those who died for the sake of her freedom.

And then it ended. The Lannisters were all alive, Joff still sat on the iron throne, she was still to marry him and the Hound was gone.

Surprisingly that hurt the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, have a lot going on right now, but alas...  
> i will upload a few more chapters today as an apologie ^^.. though they are kinda short...
> 
> The Song at the beginning is "The Hand That Feeds" by Nine Inch Nails


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a name, which makes her suddenly stand upright before she leans forward again, hands clutching the cold stone before her so hard her knuckles turn white. A familiar name, a name she had hoped to hear only in relation to a successful escape. But the figure that comes down the aisle is unmistakable and now she does not have to play her desperation anymore. The Hound stops before the stairs leading up to the iron throne, turning his head as if looking for something. They caught him. He didn’t make it.

 

She steps towards the great double doors of the throne room, Meryn Trant’s footsteps echoing behind her. There is nothing reassuring about _them_.

All she wants to do is to go back to her room, hide under the covers and think about this puzzling realization she had three nights prior, but Joff is holding court today and she is to attend. She asks herself if he can make her responsible for whatever causality his army took during the battle, and comes to the conclusion, that he can and nobody will stop him if he will. He is king after all and a traitor is a traitor. Who cares that she never met Stannis.

 _King_ Stannis, she corrects her thoughts, feeling a bit rebellious, when Trant steps in front of her to open the doors. She can only hope that Joff will be too preoccupied with cowering up his cowardice by retelling the story of his heroic battle to torment her.

The Lords and Ladies line the way to the throne, as always trying to avoid her eyes, but she is long since used to it and has stopped searching for support, for help from them. The only eyes that never where afraid to meet hers waited at the end of the hall, just behind the throne. Unfortunately it was the only pair that _she_ couldn’t bear to meet.

She makes her way towards Joffrey, sprawled on the throne in a not very kingly manner. He looks less like a lion but more like a fat lazy cat and she takes a deep breath to keep a nervous smile from her lips at the thought. His green eyes swipe over her and he makes an impatient gesture to the right side, beneath the stairs, where nobody wanted to stand, it seems. She doesn’t want either, it’s too close to him and she’s all alone now, but she obeys. Her face is frozen in the mask she has created for herself, an innocent smile, a bit naïve, a bit doe eyed and so she watches. Tywin Lannister rides by, the king speaks and the crowd cheers and then the trumpets cry out. The double doors open anew. The Tyrells march in, handsome Ser Loras, his father and brother and she is a bit surprised at herself, when the nervous flutter she used to feel in the young knight’s presence isn’t making itself known. His face matches the heroes of her songs, but she can’t help and resent him for the side he choose to fight for. Wasn’t he sworn to Renly? Yet there he kneels, asking to be a part of the Joffrey’s Kings Guard. It pains her a bit to see the spot taken, until she hears someone whisper that Ser Mandon Moore found his death in battle.

She has not long to worry about that anyway, because after that Ser Loras’ brother is to make a request and she can feel her mask slip at his words.

 _“Your Grace… a maiden sister… the delight of our house… remains innocent… come to love you from afar..”_ and finally _“…take her hand in marriage…”_

The words sound strange in her ears, incoherent and foreign, and she struggles to make sense of them. It couldn’t be so easy, could it?

It’s silent. The whole hall is looking at her, suddenly they can, it seems, she can feel the weight of their gaze. But she only looks at Joffrey and then at Ser Garlan. Back and forth, back and …

_“The gods are good…”_

Only a sharp, warning look from the queen keeps her from laughing out loud. Instead she clasps both her hands over her mouth and stifles the sound, taking a few steps back. She is shaking with silent laughter - disbelieving and relieved and maybe just a little bit hysterical - that luckily is not to discern from a barely suppressed sob. Is it really so easy? It seems so. The crowd cheers again, she is send up to the gallery, the lords and ladies making way for her as if she has the plague, and not before long they have forgotten about her, proceeding with the court.

She leans at the balustrade, only a little bit, ladies do not lean, and gazes down without seeing anything, still caught up in the rush of her freedom.

It’s a name, which makes her suddenly stand upright before she hastily leans forward again, eager to see if she heard right, if it is really him. It’s a familiar name, a name she had hoped to hear only in relation to a successful escape. Hands clutch the cold, smooth stone in front of her so hard that her knuckles turn white as she searches for a familiar face down below, hoping and fearing to find it. But the figure that comes down the aisle is unmistakable and now she does not have to play her desperation anymore. The Hound stops before the stairs leading up to the Iron throne, turning his head as if looking for something.

They caught him. He didn’t make it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurts. More than anything should have the right to. He’s just getting used to the idea of having a heart and now the bloody thing is crumbling apart in his chest.

He hears at least ten different stories about the battle, about rivers of fire and dwarves without noses, fallen kings come back to life and, but these are only whispered on the quiet, about a living king that choose to hide behind thick walls of stone while his uncle led a party to meet the enemy. Not that he is one to talk about cowardice, not after his own flight, but then again, Joffrey has never _burned_ , has he?

Yeah, he has heard a lot of stories about a lot of people, only about the person he wishes to know he hasn’t heard a single word. He hopes that’s a good sign.

Strange, but nobody seems to bother with him either. He’s not even in a cell, a maester has tended to the cut in his brow and so he spend the whole three days past resting and sleeping, the fear leaving him exhausted. But it seems like his momentary peace is to be broken now.

He hears them long before they make their way up the stairs and waits behind the closed door to open it the very moment the steps stop before his door. A handful of goldcloaks is waiting on the other side, looking at him with fear in their eyes that for once seems to have nothing to do with his face. Seems like he was more out of it than he thought, after he left the little bird to her stupid little fantasies and hopes. The night is a blur after that and for a moment he wonders if that is what his brother feels like after one of his killing sprees. An unsettling thought, so he shoves it away and glares at his visitors instead. They shrink back, but at least one of them seems to have found his voice now.

“The king is demanding your presence at court, Clegane!”, he says and the shaking in his voice he almost unnoticeable. Almost. “You’re coming with us.” And, a bit braver, because he has four of his companions in his back and an expansive piece of steel in his hand: “ _Now!”_

Ah, so it has begun. And now that he thinks about it, it would be just like Joffrey to nurse him back to health before he meets his end. Otherwise the execution wouldn’t be half as much fun. Only the lulling in false security is new. His former master has never been someone for mind games, he has too little of his own for that. Must have been someone from the council then, who put the idea in his head. Varys maybe. Or Littlefinger. It doesn’t matter, ‘cause they didn’t succeed. He has known all along what is coming for him.

Still, for a moment he hesitates, considering to relieve the man closest to him of his sword and make another attempt, but then he only nods, takes his sullied cloak from the bedstead and follows his sorry excuse of an escort outside. They all look relieved and he makes sure to catch every glance thrown his way and meet it with a stare of his own, so they know that they have reason to.

~o~0~o~ 

The throne room is bursting with people, all those fine Lords and Ladies filling the rows, dressed in their best robes and jewelry. He pays them no heed. Truth be told, he never does, but today his attention is diverted by something else than the question when this ordeal will be over and he can get himself something decent to drink. His eyes roam over the assembled mass of people, flying back and forth as he approaches the throne. He’s searching for a shock of hair that gleams red like fire and dread fills him when he finds none. Everyone who owns a little more than a rock and is not too old or too wounded from the battle has gathered here to show his ugly mug and yet the little bird’s spot to the right of the stairs leading up to the throne is empty. Surely they would have dragged her here for the spectacle. She’s the King’s betrothed for fuck’s sake. She’s supposed to be here, unless…

He comes to a halt in front of the iron throne, falling on one knee more out of habit than out of actual respect. A part of him is aware that the boy leaves his seat and descends the stairs, the eyes of the entire hall following him, but once again his mind is preoccupied with other things. If the girl is not here something must have happened. He may not remember much of that night, but the little bird was alright when he left, _that_ he’s fairly sure of. Maybe scared out of her wits, but alright. Did someone else find her? After he was gone? Someone who wasn’t satisfied with a hymn to the mother and insisted on another song? His insides curl and tie themselves in tight little knots. Or was he seen? He was quite sure that the chaos raging during the battle disguised his doings well enough but the Spider has eyes and ears on every wall at every time. The girl refused his offer to steal her away, but that won’t matter if Joffrey has heard about it.

“There you are, dog!” The boy has reached the bottom of the stairs and is standing beside him.

“Your Grace” he rumbles though he would rather take the runt and shake him until he spills the answers to the questions that torment his mind.

_Where is she? What did you do to her?_

The young lion lays a hand on his shoulder, oblivious to his reeling thoughts, and gives it a light pat, as if he really is a dog.

“You can stand up, Hound.”

Can he now? He’s not in the mood for one of king’s dramatic self-stagings, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. He’s getting on his feet and that’s when he spots her: Up on the balustrade – what the hell is she doing up _there_ – she nearly hangs over the railing and even from down here he recognizes the look in her eyes when they meet his.

They are wide with terror and she looks like she’s about to faint, her face even paler than usual. It hurts. More than anything should have the right to. He’s just getting used to the idea of having a heart and now the bloody thing is crumbling apart in his chest. Hastily he averts his eyes, calling himself a pathetic coward, but the girl holds way too much power over him for his liking. Over the years he has allowed himself only seldom to get attached, only the damn horse truth be told, but one terrified look from Sansa Stark and there is a thread of silk around his neck, choking him. She’s always been scared of him, he knows it, but this is even worse than that day on their journey back to King’s Landing when she had found herself rooted to the spot by the executioners stare and panicked only further when he tried to help her and break the spell. Why does it always end like this when he tries to help her?

Although it’s probably only natural for her to fear him now. Fear him even more than before. Three days are a lot of time to do some thinking and in hindsight even he has to admit that holding a knife to their throats inspires trust in only very few people. Damn the fires and the wine for driving him crazy and making him forget himself.  The only comfort is that she ain’t standing down here with him to face Joffrey’s wrath.

That thought brings him back to the present where the boy is still addressing the crowd and he blinks in surprise when his speech isn’t one about cowardice and betrayal leading towards a gory execution, but one of courage and loyalty. He frowns, actually listening to the boy for the first time in what seems like an eternity. It’s like the day of the Hand’s Tourney all over again. Seems like he only gets rewarded when he acts selfishly. But he welcomes the confusion and whirling thoughts because they distract him from the pair of wide blue eyes that will probably haunt his dreams tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stripped him of his cloak but let him keep his head. It was a good bargain she supposed, but still...

They called it bravery, an act of true courage and strength in the hour of need, but the Hound knew it for what it really had been: pure terror and desperation. If it had not been Tywin Lannister himself waiting for him behind the lines of Stannis’ men he would have cut through his former allies just the same. And they knew it too, he could see it in their eyes. But it would have looked bad if the King’s dog would bite his hand while half the realm was in open rebellion already. He was the epitome of loyalty and if even he were to betray his master...

And he _did_ kill a lot of Stannis’ men.

So they only stripped him of his white cloak, claiming his stubborn refusal to take any vows as the reason and the Hound struggled to look like it actually bothered him. It wasn’t very hard, albeit the true reason for his misery had wide blue eyes and hair like fire. He didn’t dare to look up again.

_~o~0~o~_

  
  


They stripped him of his cloak but let him keep his head. It was a good bargain she supposed, but still. Sansa could not help but feel angry on his behalf and the looks she shot Boros Blount in the following days had nothing to do with the new bruise that was forming on her wrist.


	8. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Stupid little bird,' a hoarse voice snarled in the back of her mind when the Queen told her she had to stay for a while longer. 'Did you really think they would let you go? That your gallant little prince would give you an escort, home to Winterfell?'

 

 

**Voices**

_"To the royal guards of this realm, we are all victims in-waiting."_

~ Cheshire Cat, Alice (VG, 2000) ~

 

She does not see the Hound for a while. He’s relieved of his duty as a Kingsguard, returning to his old position, but for the first week after the battle Joffrey is too busy with the Tyrells and his new betrothal to bother with her. And when she sees him coming down one of the halls, trailing after the king, she instinctively ducks into shadows of the nearest doorway. Lucky for her he never seems to notice and she’s actually a little bit proud of herself. She’s not sure how to face him now, after she turned down his offer to leave and he seemed so very angry with her when he left that night. He tried to help her and she refused him… Surely he would have made it out of the city if he hadn’t come back for her? He must regret it now and she does not want to see it written on his face.

She wants to see _him_ though. Involuntarily she will perk up if she hears one of the guards mention him in passing by, piece by piece puzzling together what happened after he left. It’s an outrageous tale and she is dying to ask him if it is all true, if he got out unscathed. If he is very angry with her. But the mere thought of facing him makes her shrink back from the idea and it only takes her a few days to realize that the Hounds possible wrath is the most insignificant of her worries.

 

_~o~0~o~_

 

Sansa had hoped it to be over but once again she was proven wrong.

 _Stupid little bird_ , a hoarse voice snarled in the back of her mind when the Queen told her she had to stay for a while longer. _Did you really think they would let you go? That your gallant little prince would give you an escort, home to Winterfell?_

The answer was _yes_. She had thought he would let her go. After all he had a new plaything now. Another girl he could torment and rob of her family and friends and dreams and hopes. But Margery Tyrell had yet to arrive and until then it seemed like there wouldn’t be any peace for Sansa. She pitied the girl, but at the same time willed her to come and take her place and free her once and for all.

 

_~o~0~o~_

 

She had thought being stripped in front of the entire court after she had been beaten so hard that her legs threatened to give out under her, after being reduced to a crying little girl in a hall full with men that looked at her like they were about to swallow her whole and worse, that after all that she would be prepared for everything they threw at her. Because what could possibly be more humiliating than that?

And she’s been right, there probably is not much worse that Joffrey can do in this department, but being paraded around as the woman scorned by the king comes painfully close. It isn’t the fact that she’s been put aside. She’s relieved, glad that she is going to be spared, feels rather freed than rejected. The betrothal hang over her like a dark cloud and now it’s gone. But the sun has yet to shine.

The whispers… They follow her everywhere.

 _“There she is, the Stark girl, the traitor’s daughter._ “

It’s like she has lost her name.

_“Did you hear? One of her maids said she’s cursed! At night she grows hair and teeth and claws and howls at the moon. It’s true, I tell you!”_

She’s actually rather fond of this one, if only it were true. But the other rumors are not half as pleasant. They follow her, often not even whispers, but open conversations that hold when she walks by and resume as soon as her back is turned _and she hears them all_. Do they really think she cannot hear the words, just because she is not looking?

_“I heard the entire Kingsguard had their way with her.”_

It takes her a few days until she understands, because she is a gentle soul, that they do so _because_ they know she can hear. And she remembers how she did that once with Jeyne after Arya had been particularly nasty to her. But never has she said such..such.. such _things._ And anyway, her little sister has always been stronger than her, so much braver. She had just scoffed at the two of them and then walked away to talk to Jon or to bother one of the guards with her never-ending questions. She misses her fiercely now.

_“Really? Well she has always struck me as a little slut. Did you hear what Baelish said the other day? About her mother? Blood is thick, it runs in the family.”_

_“You think we should give her a go? Bet the pretty little thing is quite lonely now. Poor girl, I could give her something worth her time…”_

_“…oh, she’ll be howling, alright! But for different reasons…”_

And that’s what’s worse. Not the words, even though they set her face aflame and make her want to hide in hole and never show herself again, but the _stares_. Because while she can escape the hurtful whispers to the illusory safety of her chambers, the looks she is receiving follow her down the halls and into her rooms, crawl under her bed and haunt her through the night. She feels silly now for believing that now that she isn’t going to be queen anymore, nobody would pay her attention and she could fade into the shadows and be forgotten, another thing Arya was fairly good at. Because it’s like the moment she ceased to be the king’s betrothed a gate has been opened, a barricade been broken down and every male being in the Red Keep is free to devour her with their eyes. She might as well be naked. It makes her skin crawl and she keeps her head down and a wall to her side. She bathes every day, trying to scrub the looks off until one of the maids takes the brush out of her trembling hands and pulls her up.

She has seen those looks before, recognizes them from a day when the streets were filled with demons disguised as humans and greedy hands grabbed for her, tearing her from her place in the saddle and downdowndown.

She wakes from her dreams soaked in sweat and there is a scream caught in her throat almost every night.


	9. Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whispers follow him as far as the yard, where they are more shouts than quiet conversations. But here, on his turf, he welcomes them gladly.

 

 

**Actions**

_She took a walk and kept her head to the ground_    
 _And everything around her, it was tumbling down_    
 _The veil she hid behind was not as safe and sound as she thought_    
 _You were there while she was starting to drown_    
 _She disappeared as all the waters abounded_

~Lights we Burn, Nine Lashes~

 

If he has any doubt (or hope) left about what the Stark girl thinks about him now, it’s cleared away during the following days. Being returned to his original position, he follows the king as Joffrey prances around the Red Keep to boast, to let himself be congratulated to his new match and to talk a whole lot of shit like his usual self. For the time being he seems completely content to let the little bird be, though he has a feeling that this will change as soon as the boy gets bored of playing the hero. That doesn’t mean, however, that he does not get see her at all. From time to time they will meet her in the halls. Well… they would, if she had not taken up the habit to duck in the shadow of the nearest doorway or step behind a pillar as soon as she sees them walking in her general direction. The first few times he tells himself it is because she wants to stay clear of Joffrey. _Clever little bird finally learned her lesson_ , he thinks. But he is not one to lie to himself and he can see her wide eyes fixed on _him_ and the way she presses herself against the wall as they walk by. The little bird is _terrified_. And not of the king.

If it would not hurt so much, even after he tried to bury the pain, it would be quite amusing. She seems to think herself quite clever and to her credit, the boy never notices her. But then again the young lion probably never notices anything. That is _his_ job. And he sees her. Every single time.

_~o~0~o~_

  
  


Her fear wounds him, albeit it is nothing new to him. She has always been anxious in his presence, eager to avoid looking at him. But he had thought they had made some kind of truce between themselves, maybe even some kind of _trust_. Now that truce is gone and the loss hurts even more because now she has a reason to fear him and he gave it to her himself. However, he can live with that, his own pain. What he can’t live with is the current situation. Fulfilling his duty he has to keep his eyes and ears open to look out for threats, but he is not surprised to realize now that for a few months now already he finds himself more and more often looking for threats concerning _her_ , not the boy he’s supposed to guard. And what he sees and hears, ain’t helping. Far from it, truth be told. It only causes him to worry more.

He has heard the news concerning the royal wedding, has seen the spring in the girl’s step when she visited the gardens the day after the announcement and it fills him with dread. She isn’t going to be Joffrey’s little queen anymore and while she seems to think that’s a good thing, he thinks it’s a bloody disaster. The boy has been rough with her, no denying that, but there was a certain line he couldn’t cross, not without bringing his mother’s wrath on him at least. Seems like that slut was good for something after all. Joeffrey had to keep the girl in a somewhat good condition, couldn’t go too far. Well, there is no such thing holding him back now, and while the Queen will probably step in if he should try to kill her, there are more than enough ways to harm someone while keeping her alive. He knows that better than anyone. And who is going to stop the boy? All of the Starks are dead or far away (and it’s only a matter of time before the remaining ones will bite the dust as well). There is no one here to speak up for her, no one to hold the lions responsible if she were to come to serious harm. It’s like all those years ago, when speaking up for him would have meant to cross Gregor and even his own father knew which side to choose.

Whatever small protection she had, is gone now and the people at the Keep know it too. Which means the hunt is on and he can barely do a thing about it. The rumor mill is already in full swing and he hears every single tale there is. Some of them, mostly the yarn her maids spin together, are so ridiculous that he cannot help but laugh at them. But there are others too and they are not half as amusing. The ones he hears whispered among the high ladies at court, while Cersei sits nearby and smiles secretly in the wine cup she’s nursing, are full of malice but probably harmless. More troubling are the stories their noble husbands share among themselves when they prance through the castle’s long hallways and the leers that accompany them test his self-control beyond its limits. But he’s only an old dog, and he would need a damn good excuse to bite their hands. And so his knuckles are often bloodied these days, because he hit one of the unyielding stonewalls of his small chamber in order to keep himself from breaking a high-born neck.

The whispers follow him as far as the yard, where they are more shouts than quiet conversations. But here, on his turf, he welcomes them gladly. Nobody will ask for a reason when the Hound roughs up a few of the guards or knights that train here. And if he happens to break the jaw of every little fucker whose eyes lingered a bit too long on the little bird in the process, then that’s quite alright with him. There are a lot of broken jaws these days. And noses and arms. A few crushed ribs as well, but _that_ is hardly something out of the ordinary when he is concerned. Still, it only takes a few days and the yard empties on the mere mention of his arrival. _The Hound is in a foul mood_ , he hears the cravens whisper, cursing them all. His only source of relief is gone now and he’s fairly sure that he will succumb to his urges and launch himself at the next fool who runs his mouth before long.

But that’s not the only reason something has to change and quickly so.

He has lived with stares and whispers, with quickly averted eyes and cutting remarks for a long time already. Some days are easier to bear than others and more often than not he finds himself irritated by it, but the sensation has dulled somewhat over the years. Or maybe the bloody talkers just got fewer. It’s no secret what happens if you stare at a dog for too long.

Anyway, he has gotten used to being judged before he has any chance to prove his worth. Not that the usual first impression of him is wrong. With a face like this he had not much of a choice than to build up a reputation to match it. He’s good at it too, welcomed the relief for his fears, his anger, the pain of being betrayed by everything he thought the world to be. They expect him to be ferocious and it’s his nature to meet expectations and follow orders.

However, he’s not his brother, and it has been a devastating lesson for his younger self that while the one carrying the scars is cast aside and treated like the monster, the demon who inflicted them is welcomed among their midst.The pain has lost its edge over time, he buried it deep under fury and hatred, bound it with indifference and disregard. But the memory of it is fresh in his mind when he sees how the girl is slowly crumbling away. 

He can see how she tries to stay strong, how she keeps her back straight and her little chin up, though no doubt she hears the whispers too, notices the looks. He can see it in the way she folds her hands to keep them from trembling and in the way she stiffens when someone doesn’t bother to lower his voice before spreading his filthy thoughts for all the world to hear. He has entertained some of those ideas himself, he must admit. Almost acted on them too, he remembers, feeling more like a dog than ever before. But he walked away this night. He _left_.

_Aye, you left her alone. How does that make you any better? It simply meant destruction by another pair of hands, leaving you just as guilty._

He chases this kind of thoughts away with an angry snarl. He is here now, he will do what he can. He won’t leave a second time. _And,_ a quiet mocking voice in the back of his mind will add at these times, _never was she only that, right? A quick relief for your needs? No, you fool want her_ whole _, smooth skin and tits and hair , but all of her smiles as well. Body and Soul. You are going to get burned and you know it, stupid  dog._

That makes him growl only louder, but it’s true. He wants her so much that something inside him twists painfully when he sees how her shoulders slump in moments she thinks herself unobserved.

_Stupid little bird._

Somewhere in this rotten place someone is always watching, always listening. The Spider is not the only one to weave a web here.

But she’s young. Young and unprepared for the cruelty of the world. No doubt her bloody Septa taught her all her pleasant courtesies, but she failed to instruct her for a situation like this. Highborn little ladies were born and trained to look down on others, not to be looked down on themselves.

The girl does not look like she will last much longer and even faster breaking is the restrain of the scum at the castle. Every now and then an unsuspecting bastard would step into the shadows of a doorway in order to intercept the little bird during one of her flights through a deserted hall, only to find that the spot has been taken already. The surprise is usually short-lived. He has always been a poor conversationalist and so his greeting consists of a cold blade buried deep into the other man’s belly. Something needs to happen. Fast. He’s slowly but surely running out of places to hide the bodies and apparently there are people who even notice when one or two gold cloaks go missing. 

And then the matter solves itself pretty much on its own, and for the first time in years he considers that maybe there is a god somewhere after all.


	10. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it’s supposed to be a punishment for him as well as for the little bird. No doubt Cersei relished in the idea of humiliating him while the boy is thrilled to scare his former betrothed out of her wits.

Loras Tyrell quickly became the king’s new shadow. The Hound could not really say he minded it all that much. If someone would have asked him, he would have merely pointed out that it probably was not all that wise to let a man who had openly supported Renly – and in more than one way -  this close to the king. But no one ever did and he did not care enough to speak up by himself. Suddenly he found himself with a whole lot of time at his hands and noticing that, the boy appointed him with a new task.

_~o~0~o~_

Keeping an eye on the Stark girl.

“A fitting task one should think,” The Queen pipes up from her place beside her son. “For a man of your _courage and bravery_.”

There is a cruel gleam in her eye and ice in her smile and not for the first time he thinks, that he knows exactly where Joffrey’s twisted mind came from.

So it’s supposed to be a punishment for him as well as for the little bird. No doubt Cersei relished in the idea of humiliating him while the boy is thrilled to scare his former betrothed out of her wits. Well, he is not going to complain if it allows him to make sure she is safe. Or at least as safe as she can be within these walls.

He just nods, letting his gaze wander over the assembled faces and catches the old Lion’s eye. No doubt the original idea came from him. The girl would lose all her worth if someone were to act on what the looks she is getting these days are implying. And like the good loyal dog he is, he will keep her safe. He wonders if they realize what they are doing. He can almost feel how his chain is handed to a much gentler pair of hands.

_~o~0~o~_

 

_Fool._

_Coward!_

He stands in front of the little bird’s chambers and thinks that he has been right all along. If there are gods, they are cruel. One hand is at the doorknob, the other raised to knock while he fights the sudden panic rolling in his stomach. It’s ridiculous, being afraid of a little girl who can’t lift anything heavier than a hairbrush. After all, he has faced much more dire odds. But the memory of her fearfilled eyes looking down on him from the balustrade makes his heart fall and drives the air from his lungs. Not to mention her sneaking around the hallways and changing direction as soon as she spots his figure at the other end of a corridor. The thought to have this gaze upon him again, today and tomorrow and the days after that, drives him insane. How could he forget what his duty would entail?

But he cannot stand here forever, soon will someone pass by and Joffrey is waiting. No doubt the little bird will have to answer for it if he delivers her late. It’s the first time in days the king has demanded her presence and he won’t care that the girl will not appreciate that it’s his old dog who came to fetch her.

So he takes a deep breath and knocks, hard and short, and opens the door before he can change his mind. She is already up, facing the door and he averts his eyes before he can see the terror in hers. This won’t do though. He has learned long ago that fear does not go away if you simply ignore it. It makes use of it, spreads unnoticed until it fills you out and then it devours you whole, heart and soul and mind. No, the only way is to meet it head-on and so he raises his head and looks at her, using his anger at his own foolishness to overpower the fear.

The little bird is already looking at him, eyes on his face and a little smile on her lips. It startles him and for a moment he thinks she is laughing at his cowardice but then he notices the confusion in her eyes, confusion he can feel himself. She does not look afraid. Nervous perhaps, yeah, a great deal of that, but not afraid. She just stands there, smiling, and looks at him. He looks back waiting for her to come to her senses – damn it, he put a dagger to her throat and she just smiles – but nothing happens. Relief and anger about her carelesness dance around each other in his chest and he cannot help himself but hope. Could it really be? Has she forgiven him? Startled at the strength with that the feeling is washing through him, he  grabs it and holds it down before it can make itself at home in his heart. It’s full enough already.

 “Come on girl, I haven’t got all day.”

Her nervousness fades away like it has never been there and he stares after her in wonder as she walks out of the door and down the corridor before he reminds why he came here, closing the door and following her.

_~o~0~o~_

The Hound observed her closely after that, waited for her to remember the words he snarled in her ear that night, the cool metal on her throat, the weight of his body pinning her to the bed. Waited for her to remember that she had every right to be afraid of him. She never did.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His words hang still between them, giving her a source of comfort and strength that make it impossible to feel fear or worry soon cause the few minutes he needs to escort her from one place to the next to become her favorite time of the day.

The first day he is sent to fetch her she is paralyzed with fear… what is she supposed to say, what to _do_? … but surprisingly he seems to be even more nervous than her, avoiding her eyes before abruptly raising his head to stare her down, a defiant look on his face. It confuses her, that look, because for once he does not look angry at her but at himself and so she only keeps her eyes on his, an apologetic smile on her face and waits.

His expression wavers, changing from defiant to confused, from confused to wonder and from wonder, just for a short moment, to relief, before his mask of indifference slides into place and he makes an impatient movement with his hand, waving down the corridor behind him.

“Come on girl, I haven’t got all day.”

His voice is rough and hard, but not hostile and she lets out a breath she has not even realized she’s been holding.

They don’t talk another word for the whole way but somehow she feels like he knows. He must know that she is sorry and even if he does not acknowledge it, he does not seem angry at her. And she can see something akin to worry in his eyes that may would have alarmed her, before the battle. But it does not anymore.

_I could keep you safe. They are all afraid of me. Nobody would hurt you again, or I’d kill them._

His words hang still between them, giving her a source of comfort and strength that make it impossible to feel fear or worry and soon cause the few minutes he needs to escort her from one place to the next to become her favorite time of the day.

Just for a few moments he gives her something to hold onto. A place to rest. A side she does not have to defend, a few minutes she does not have to guard her every thought and even if he is not with her, his words from that night echo in her head and give her all the reassurance she needs to survive the day.

She feels safe enough to let her mind wander and more often than not finds, that it does take the strangest directions in his presence…


	12. What should I call you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes him a moment to register her words, the exact amount of time the little bird needs to register what she just did. Judging by the way she flushes, she was not planning on speaking that thought out loud.

“What should I call you?”

The words startle him out of his silent observation of her hair, it’s open today, cascading over her pale shoulders like a river of fire, and he blinks because she may has stopped hiding from him but they have never talked to each other since that night, except for polite greetings on her part and not quite so polite snarls on his in return, even though they spent now much more time in each other’s presence. The fact that he does not have to worry about frightening her anymore fills him with a fairly large amount of wonder and yes, satisfaction. He can barely resist the urge to take a step back when she whirls around to face him, an expectant look on her face.

…What?

It takes him a moment to register her words, the exact amount of time the little bird needs to register what she just did. Judging by the way she flushes, she was not planning on speaking that thought out loud. He watches how the color rises up her slim neck and once again is distracted by the way her chest is rising and falling until she takes a deep breath and straightens herself. He forces his gaze up to her face and stares at her. Watches how she bites her lips and how she fidgets, still blushing, and how her eyes never leave his. The seconds tick by. One breath, two, three… when did it become so easy for her to look him straight in the face? Really look? She has been doing it for a while now, at least a fortnight, he realizes. Since... Oh, since she saw him. Of course. _Not so scary anymore, are you, you old dog? Crying like a child?_   But there is no mockery in her eyes, she is just looking at him like she would look at everyone else. It unnerves him a bit and then he can’t take it anymore. He grabs her shoulders and spins her around, giving her a little shove. They have wasted enough time already and the little shit will grow impatient. However, he has not given her an answer yet.

_What should I call you?_

What did she mean by that?

“What are you talkin’ about? Has the little bird hit her pretty head? I’m the Hound. Everyone knows that.”

His voice comes out sharper then he intended to, fueled by his confusion and the effort to suppress the thoughts that are fleeting through his mind. She’s so close, her scent filling his nose, a delicious little blush still coloring her skin and now that he knows what it feels like to have her body pressed to his, looming over her... Shit, he really shouldn’t be looking at her for too long.

“N-No, that’s not what I meant. I apologize. But you see, I was thinking…”

Her reply is hasty, her hands fluttering like a little bird’s wings and he stares at her hair, swaying gently back and forth. She’s been thinking what? She never calls him anything, has no reason to. It’s not like they are talking much and when it’s mostly him after he forbid her to address him as.. _Ah_. He sighs and shakes his head.

 “Don’t trouble yourself, girl. I’m just a dog. No more, no less.”

Nevertheless, he’s puzzled at her sudden interest. She huffs, clearly dissatisfied with his answer and he grins, until she moves to turn again. Putting a hand on her shoulder he stops the movement before it begins and steers her around the next corner, even though she always seems to know where he wants her to go these days. He cannot look at her face right now. Not with his blood on fire and his thoughts in an uproar. He’s not sure if she’s trying to be polite, he thought he cured her from that by now, or if she really wants to know, and maybe that would be even worse.

The little bird huffs again and obeys, quiet for a moment. He thinks she has let it go and is about to resume his observation of her hair, he really likes it better this way, when she speaks up again.

“But dogs have names too, don’t they?” she whispers and there is hope in her voice. Hope and a smidge of sadness and something he can’t quite identify. He doesn’t say a word and she is silent too. Maybe waiting, maybe regretting. He watches but does not see.

_What should I call you?_

He’s been the Hound for so many years, it seems strange to him that someone should be asking for his name. Especially her. And he does not want to give it, remembering a thread around his neck, thin as a thread of silk, a hair, a spider’s web. Loose and light, but tightening. Only a little bit at a time. If he were to give his name, there is no way back, he’s sure of it, and she takes up far too much of his mind and dreams already. Better pretend he did not hear and wait ‘til she forgets it.

And then she slumps a little bit, her shoulders falling and she looks so defeated, even before she has entered the throne room to face whatever shit the runt has cooked up for her now, that he can’t help himself. Cursing himself he leans in and whispers into her ear, his voice so low that maybe, just maybe, she will not catch it. 

“Sandor. You may call me Sandor.”

She does, catch it that is. And there is a thread of silk around his neck, light as a feather; and he would swear every oath that he can feel a tug when she looks back at him with a smile and a nod. He doesn’t mind.

“Sandor it is then.”

He follows her with his eyes as she walks down the aisle to find herself a place, humming a tune under her breath, hands folded calmly in front of her. Red hair swings over her shoulders in the tact of her steps and he knows he never stood a chance. There has never been a way back in the first place.


	13. Of Hounds and Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not right, not fair and he would probably laugh at her, if he could hear her thoughts. Still. It is important to her all the same, she has seen the person, the man behind this name he seems to wear just like the helmet that represents it.

There is a sharp knock at her door, hard and short and she stands up to lay the brush she is currently holding at her nightstand. Her hair is loose, it’s still very early and she had no time to put it up yet, but hopefully nobody will mind. She isn’t the king’s betrothed anymore, she can allow herself to be a little bit less than perfect. And when she walks by the looking glass and catches her mother’s reflection in it, it makes herself feel greater, stronger. Her head is high, her back straight when he opens her door without waiting for her to let him in. He never does. She meets his gaze and gives him a smile, friendly and sure, and for a moment he just stands there, staring, before he scoffs, his arms crossed over his chest. The words _Spare me your pleasantries_ , go unsaid, she knows them by heart now, and she can feel the corners of her mouth twitch, threatening to break into a grin. But ladies do not grin and there are some standards to uphold even when, no, _especially_ when he seems determined to ignore them all. So she allows herself merely to smile a little bit wider. He notices it nonetheless and gives her a curious look before his eyes slide up and down her body.

“All set?” he rasps when his gaze returns to her eyes after a while and she suddenly feels self-conscious, shuffling her feet. But it only takes a look to her left where the framed face of her mother is still looking back at her and she nods, her voice steady when she replies.

“I am ready.”

He returns the nod, eyes straying to her hair as she passes him. The door closes with a quiet _click_ behind her and she hears him following, his heavy footfalls drowning out the sound her own, so much lighter ones. He matches her strides, always exactly one step behind, and she wonders if it is hard for him… his own legs are so much longer than hers after all. They remain in comfortable silence and she lets her mind wander, while he wordlessly guides her through the halls. They are not needed. Just a slight change in the rhythm of his steps, a small movement, a turn of his head maybe or a twitch of his fingers, seen out of the corner of her eye.

She can read him that well by now and she is strangely pleased by it, filled with some sort of pride, as if it is a great accomplishment. She dwells on that, wondering if it is something to be proud of. But it is, is it not? She doubts that anyone else knows him that well. Joffrey may has spend most of his life in the Hound's presence but the king hardly ever pays attention to anyone but his own person. There is no one else beside him in his heart, she knows that now, feeling stupid for once imagining to see adoration and love for her in his green eyes.

And apart from Joffrey… No, there probably is no one else. The Hound is a creature of the shadows, something taken for granted, not worth mentioning. She is the only one who cares enough to actually take notice.

The Hound. That’s really all he is to them and nobody pays much attention to a _dog_. They give the command and he strikes, that’s all they need to know. It makes her angry on his behalf, even more so when she remembers that not that long ago she did not care either, and her hands clench into fists, ashamed about her superficial self from then. She senses more than she sees his gaze wandering first to her tense shoulders, then to her hands and without a word he steps slightly closer, to reassure her no doubt. She smiles up at him at that, even though he misunderstood, and forces herself to relax. He stares at her for a moment, surprised, his own fingers twitching, but then only shakes his head and stares ahead, leaving her to her thoughts once more.

For a very long time now it has been a mystery to her why he not only lets himself be called a dog, and with the clear scornful meaning the knights and the king are implying too, but why he seems to take some defiant sort of pride in it.  

_I like dogs better than knights._

The words suddenly appear in her mind, an almost forgotten memory of the time _before_ , driven away by everything that came after it and because she didn’t understand what it meant. Not back then. It sounds stupid after all. Who would compare a dog to a knight? And who would name the dog the winner? But after all she has seen, after all that has happened she can’t help but agree. Everything she believed a knight to be, came apart before her very eyes when Illyn Payne cut through her father’s neck and nobody spoke up. Yes, her beliefs shattered back then, but the understanding took longer.

_There are no true knights, no more than there are gods._

She remembers the meeting at the roof and the anger in his voice and eyes. She did not want to believe him then. Could not. And so she had fled to the library, desperate to prove him wrong, to prove to herself that not all she believed in had been a stupid little girl’s dream, and to distract herself of the enemy nearing the city’s gates. And poring over book after book she finally found her truth. The memory still made her smile sadly. She wonders if the Hound had known. Maybe she should tell him. She is sure he would appreciate the irony of it.

How often had she heard the words “I am a _knight_.”, as if that would give the men speaking them any right to do as he pleased? As if it was the only explanation necessary, legitimising whatever damage left in his wake. And for most people it was. But it meant nothing. The name was only a relic of the old days when the people still spoke the ancient tongue. _Servant_. Nothing more it meant.

 

_Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers._

Yet another memory and she finds herself shaking her head. Yes, maybe he had really known. She still remembered what a fuss the knights had made after the king appointed his _dog_ to take Ser Barristan’s place among the King’s Guards. She had been a bit surprised too, she recalls, feeling slightly ashamed of herself now. Because weren’t they all just the same? Men in Joffrey’s service, nothing more, nothing less? Only that the man walking behind her refused to lie about it, just like he did with so much else. The knights were wearing their _Ser_ like a shield, using a fancy word to mask the ugly reality, like the shining armaments and the colorful banners diverted the eyes from the true purpose of the gleaming weapons in their hands. Yes, knights were for killing. She knows that truth now too. And maybe she had always known it, deep down. She just thought it would be… different. She can see now how silly that had been. No matter how she looks at it, there just isn’t any polite way to kill someone.

_I like dogs better than knights._

Yes, it took her a while but slowly she has come to understand that he takes the words meant as an insult and turns them into a compliment. His own private joke. And somehow the thought makes her smile and feel sad at the same time. He is right about it though. Because doesn’t a dog stand for the same virtues as a knight? Loyalty and honesty and valor? True, he certainly lacks gallantry, but she knows now how useless that one is, how false and twisted. Experience has taught her to despise gentle words delivered by cold eyes and smiles nearly as much as he does. Concerning his honor she’s not entirely sure. But then again, she isn’t all that sure what honor is anyway. Everyone said her father was an honorable man. She was always quite proud of it, she remembers. But what exactly made him honorable? And of what use was it to him when he was faced with treachery and lies? Still, she suspects there are as many kinds of honor as there are of mercy and in his own way the man walking behind her is probably honorable too. He gives no promises he is not willing to hold, he never hurt her, not really, even that night when heaven itself was on fire… he has never beaten her, shielded her to the best of his abilities… that’s more than the _knights_ can say for themselves. It certainly is enough for her.

That seems to make dogs the better knights. And yet, she is growing reluctant to refer to him as such. It denies him his humanity while the knights, while his _brother_ is allowed to keep his, wearing his title like a coat to disguise the monster underneath. Guilt floods her, for she was fooled by it once. It’s not _right_ , not fair and he would probably laugh at her, if he could hear her thoughts. Still. It is important to her all the same, she has seen the person, the man behind this name he seems to wear just like the helmet that represents it.

“What should I call you?”

The words are out before she knows it and she only notices it because she is suddenly facing him as he stares down at her in utter confusion. Not only has she spoken without knowing but also stopped her walking and turned to look up at him, catching him midstride and she can already feel the heat crawling up her neck, coloring her cheeks as red as her hair. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself and schools her face into an expectant expression. He’s so blunt and crude himself, maybe he will not even notice that she slipped? But he just stares right back at her as silence stretches between them, a strange flicker in his eyes she cannot quite place. It makes her feel funny, her heart stuttering and her breath quickening.

And then the flicker is gone and he takes her by the shoulders and spins her around, firm but gently, and nudges her forward and she continues walking down the corridor, confused and strangely disappointed.

“What are you talkin’ about? Has the little bird hit her pretty head? I’m the Hound. Everyone knows that.”

He sounds obviously irritated, if with her or with himself she cannot say. She chews her lip, face still red and going redder still as she walks on, heavy footsteps drowning out her own.

“N-No, that’s not what I meant. I apologize. But you see, I was thinking…”

Thinking what? How can she explain what is on her mind when does not even understands it herself? After all she knows his name as good as her own. But she is even more reluctant to call him Clegane, that’s his brother’s name, and, and… and there is no “Ser”, no “Lord” she can put in front of _his_ name, that would make everything a lot easier for her. Anyway, nobody seems to be using _that_ name. Somehow she feels like needs permission to do so. But she cannot tell him that, can she? He will laugh for sure and that is still hard to take. Maybe even harder than it was before the battle.

But maybe he knows her well by now too, because he seems to sense her conflicted thoughts, and, she thinks wonderingly, he can untangle them as well. Sighing he shakes his head, a jerking movement in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t trouble yourself, girl. I’m just an old dog. No more, no less.”

Dissatisfied she furrows her brow, huffing at his dismissive tone. This is important, can’t he see? She wants to look at him, make him understand that he’s _not_ , but when she tries to turn around, he places a heavy hand on her shoulder and steers her around another corner. The message is clear. She huffs again and obeys, but does not let the topic go.

“But dogs have names too, don’t they?” she asks softly, hope in her voice.

He’s quiet after that, his silence loud in her ears. Did he not hear or does he simply not want to answer her? Was she to straight forward? She slumps a little bit, her confidence from before gone. But right before they enter the throne room – is she expected to attend court today?, she can't remember – he leans in and whispers into her ear, so low she almost does not catch it.

“Sandor. You may call me Sandor.”

This probably is the happiest she has ever entered the throne room.


	14. False Hope is a terrible Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sudden reappearance of one of the men who still frequently hunt her nightmares at her very doorstep frightens her.  
> But surely she is making a fool out of herself? Maybe…maybe they are calling her to tell her, that she can finally go home?

**False Hope is a terrible Thing**

_When the sun would set, the trees were dead,_  
_and the rivers were none,_  
 _And I hoped for a trace to lead me back home from this place,_  
 _but there was no sound, it was only me, and my disgrace_

~Wolf - First Aid Kit~

~o~0~o~

 

Sansa was fairly sure what stopped the whispers and the looks. She could not see what the H… what _Sandor_ was doing when he walked behind her but she could almost feel his eyes burning holes in everyone who looked her way. It amused her a bit. He accompanied her during her walks outside in the gardens or when she had to go somewhere at the behest of the king. Sometimes they were quiet, sometimes they talked. Really talked. It was a bit startling to have a proper conversation, even though he never ceased his growling. She was glad for it. It was a part of him and she was tired of feigned kindness. For a few days her life was almost peaceful.

If it could have stayed like this she may had been content to remain here a little bit longer. But of course it could not. She only wished she would have recognized the calm before the storm for what it was.

 

~o~0~o~

 

Sandor is out in the training yard, when a loud knock resounds from her door - like every day around this time - and so she knows that it cannot be him even before the faithful voice in the back of her mind snarls at her that _this_ knock sounds all _wrong_. And definitely before the door swings open to reveal Ser Meryn Trant.

Startled she raises from her seat by the window, where she had been practicing her needlework, her brow furrowed and her mouth wide – before she remembers her manners. Hastily she puts down the piece of cloth she had been working on, straightens her back and schools her face into a pleasant if somewhat shaky smile before she curtsies. 

“Good morning, Ser Trant. Isn’t it a fine day?  What leads you to my chambers, may I can be of help to you?”

 _Sing,_ snarls the voice _, sing your bloody song! Buy time!_

What does Joffrey’s knight want with her? Why isn’t Sandor here? Did the king send for her? Does Sandor know of this? Did she do something wrong? Or maybe her family? _And where is Sandor?_ Why is he not here at her side?

Meaningless words spill out of her mouth, while her thoughts whirl in her mind, chasing each other and making her head spin. Fear coils in her belly. Since the Battle of the Blackwater she as may as well could have been air to the Knights of the King’s Guard. They did not speak to her, did not look at her… not that she was not glad for it.

But if Joffrey wished to see her these days, he send Sandor to fetch her from her chambers, not them. The sudden reappearance of one of the men who still frequently hunt her nightmares at her very doorstep frightens her.

But surely she is making a fool out of herself? Maybe…maybe they are calling her to tell her, that she can finally go home? The Queen said to wait a little while and Margaery Tyrell’s arrival isn’t that far off anymore...

She runs out of pleasantries to say to the unresponsive knight before she can come to a final conclusion, but her nerves are somewhat calmed. It’s no use to fret, she muses, before she even knows why he is here. And even then…It would not change a thing, would it? Has she been sent for, so she must go and face what awaits her. Still, it is hard to resist the growing hope in her heart. She could be going _home_ …

She falls silent, her hands gripping the thin fabric of her gown tightly when she forces herself to meet Ser Trant’s indifferent stare head-on.

“King Joffrey demands your presence in the Council’s chambers”, he announces, his voice as dead as his eyes, and she takes a deep breath.  

The Council’s chambers? Not the court?

She’s not sure why it makes such a difference. The presence of a lot of other people hasn’t stopped him from cruel behavior before. But somehow she feels a bit of the former unease sneaking back into her blood.

Trant moves, his patience with her running out it seems, and she starts out of her thoughts and hurries to step towards the door, before he comes closer, signaling that she will go on her own. She does not want his fingers on her.

They walk in silence, but it is not a comfortable one and she fights to resist the urge to turn around every other second, the sound of Trant’s steps behind her making it hard to remember her earlier resolve to stay calm. But she will endure it, if it is what it takes to get her home. She has been through much worse during her stay here. Through so much worse.

The walk seems endless and she almost breathes with relief when they reach the door that leads to Joffrey’s chambers. Despite her best attempts to fight it down, she is soaring with hope when the door is pushed open and eagerly steps over the threshold.

She stops abruptly when she notices the expression on his face though.

Joffrey stands in the middle of the room, the wide open window behind him illuminating him from behind as if he would be one of the icons in the Sept, his golden hair swaying in the gentle breeze. Only a few months ago the sight would have made her knees weak and send her stomach aflutter with a silly illusion of love on her side. Not today. Today she sees the predatory, cruel gleam in his green eyes, the cold smile and the twitching of his slender fingers holding a glinting gauntlet, though the sun is blinding her. She has committed every of these details to memory, can almost imagine to taste violence in the air, not salt and dust. But first and foremost she notices the absence of anybody else in the room. No one to stop or interrupt whatever torment the King has planned for her. No Lord Tyrion, no Tywin Lannister… no Queen with good news concerning her return home…No one. Just her and Joffrey and Ser Trant, who’s hand has gripped her wrist like a vice when she tries to flee.

“Have you heard?” Joffrey spits and slips the gauntlet over his hand. “Your traitor of a brother just took the Crag…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter... will have to rewrite it someday but grrr... no, I'm not satisfied with it...
> 
> I love the Song though... A Sansa Song.. or maybe rather a Stark-song? Dunno.
> 
> the title is a quote by Charlie Rae : “False hope is a terrible thing, if its the only thing keeping you alive you'll be dead by dawn.”


	15. Flower Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has no doubt that the girl is grateful for his company. But he also has no doubts that she would be just as grateful if he was someone else. Most likely even more so. It’s the support she craves. Not him.

 

 **Flower Language**  

 _Darf ich das behalten_  
_Ich hab's gefunden_  
_Zerschunden und lahm_  
_Hab seine Wunden verbunden_  
_Und jetzt ist es zahm_  
  
_Siehst du, es findet den Weg nicht mehr_  
_Ich kann seine Sprache, ich_  
_Lauf hinter ihm her und dann_  
_Läuft es mir nach und ich_  
_Halt es geborgen in meiner Hand_  
_Schlaf bis zum Morgen_  
_Mit dem Rücken zur Wand_

_Darf ich das behalten_  
_Ich brauche nichts mehr_  
_Darf ich das behalten_  
_Ich geb alles her_  
_Darf ich das behalten_  
_Ich brauche nichts mehr_  
_Ich brauche nichts mehr als das_  
_Ich brauche nichts mehr_

~Darf ich das Behalten?, Wir sind Helden~

__~o~0~o~_ _

 

He found himself waiting. Sandor could not have said what exactly for. Something. Something that boded not well for the little bird. The king was growing bored and that was never good. His new betrothed, the Tyrell girl, had yet to arrive and he hungered for entertainment. He knew the boy, had seen the restlessness and slowly rising tension that would erupt sooner or later, no doubt in a thunderstorm of blood and violence, far too often. So far he had never cared about it because even in his most stupid moments Joffrey knew better than to mess with him. He still did. But now Sandor had not only to worry for himself anymore. It was a traitorous thing, his heart. For years it had made itself scarce, pretended to be dead and buried and now was back and threatened to fall apart at the mere thought of the girl getting hurt. He was not used to caring. And so he stood and watched and waited with bated breath for the storm to rise and cursed the Lannisters and his bloody traitor of a heart.

_~o~0~o~_

The bruise stands out ugly against her snow-like skin, like a smudge of ink on a fresh sheet of paper. It mars her left jaw, even though she doubtlessly tried very hard to hide it. But no matter how much of her magic tinctures and powders she will use, it’s impossible to mask something like that. He leans closer, carefully lifting her head by the chin like he has done so many times before and turns it to the side to get a closer look. The outlines of a hand are vague but unmistakable and he growls under his breath. At least the skin isn’t broken this time.

The little bird observes him out of the corner of her eye while takes his time examining her injury, carefully brushing against the dark shadow with the pad of his thumb. She winces and reluctant he releases her, already missing the feeling of her soft skin under his fingers.

“Is there more?”

The bruise is bad, but if that is all she got out of Joffrey’s latest temper tantrum, she’s lucky. And the world usually just isn’t that way. The boy does worse on a good day.

“No, that’s it”, she says, sounding much too tired for her young age. He doesn’t believe her. The little bird is very keen to avoid his gaze and plays with the hem of her dress. He snorts.

“Remember what I told you about smelling lies?”

She stares up at him angrily but he merely holds her gaze until she sighs and relents. Her fingers are shaking when she reaches for the sleeves of her colorful dress, slowly rolling them up. First left, then right. There are bruises on her wrists as well, there always are these days, but then she turns her arms around, the underside facing up and he curses. Thin parallel lines mark the once smooth skin there, angry red streaks from her wrist up to her elbow. Some of them are smeared with blood.

“His belt…” she whispers, staring at her arms as if seeing them for the very first time.

 “What?” he asks though he has an inkling where this is going and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“He used his belt. H-he did it himself this time. Joffrey I mean.”

Of course he did. After all the little bird isn’t going to be queen anymore. He stares a second longer before grabbing her, carefully, and pulling her up. There is no point asking what caused this, whatever reason the boy gave her, if any at all, is a farce anyway, but someone needs to look at that. His blood roars in his ears, a familiar tune, and he has to constantly remind himself to _calm down_ , because otherwise he is going to break her wrist in his hurry to reach the maester. It takes him two whole hallways to realize he is dragging her. She has dug in her heels and only now he hears that she is talking to him too.

“Please. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

An unbelieving look on his face, he turns around to her.

“The fuck you are!”

She’s unfazed by his snarling - when did _that_ happen? – and her voice adopts a pleading tone when she tries to pull him back. Back to her rooms, away from Pycelle’s door they were fast approaching before the little bird decided to be stupid again. There are tears in her eyes for hell’s sake. There is no way she is fine and he will not have her scarred. He will not let them mark her and cut a reminder of their horrors in her very skin.

“ _Please!_ I don’t want- He – He’s one of them. He is _looking_ at me!”

There is real desperation in her eyes and despite himself he lets go of her hand and sighs. She’s right though. The thought of that dirty old cunt touching his little bird makes his skin crawl. It’s an open secret that maester likes to let his hands wander while _examining_ his patients. But the wounds need tending to, not only to keep them from scarring, but also to make sure they won’t infect. The girl has calmed down pretty fast, now that they’ve stopped, cradling her arms to her chest, and looks at him while he racks his brain about what to do.

The cuts are not that deep, so they will probably heal in time by themselves. The problem is the infection and the pain she must be in. He can see the haze clouding her eyes, even though she tries very hard to keep from crying it seems. He doesn’t like that old fucker of a healer either and on the battlefield his lot is scarce anyway, so he knows one or two things about tending to injuries, at least minor one like these...

“Fine” he grumbles and takes her hand again, this time leading her in the opposite direction, towards the garden. “Have it your way then. But don’t blame me if you turn out as ugly as me.”

Not that she ever could. But the little bird seems unconcerned anyway, curiously running beside him to keep up with his long strides as he passes by flowerbed after flowerbed, their contents as colorful as they are useless.

“What are you looking for?” she asks finally when the first trees of the godswood appear in their sight.

“A flower.” He can feel her confusion and chuckles. “It’s not as beautiful as the others, so it has no business in the royal gardens. We might get lucky here though.”

_~o~0~o~_

It’s the little bird who spots the marigold after he described it to her and the smile she gives him after he has put it on her fragile little arms and wrapped a clean piece of cloth around them sets his insides on fire and ties them into knots at the same time. He has no doubt that the girl is grateful for his company. But he also has no doubts that she would be just as grateful if he was someone else. Most likely even more so. It’s the support she craves. Not him.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...that little bit of marigold won't be doing much good, I guess, but it was all I could come up with. So if someone has a better knowledge of the medical uses of plants and flowers and all that... please share ? 
> 
> The lyrics are from one of my favourite bands "Wir sind Helden" , from the song "Darf ich das behalten?" (May I keep that?) I tried myself at a translation... hope its understandeble:
> 
> May I keep that?  
> I've found it  
> wounded and lame  
> Cared for its wounds  
> and now it is tame
> 
> You see, it has lost its way  
> I speak its tongue, I  
> will follow it and then  
> it will follow me and I  
> will keep it safe in my hand  
> Sleep 'till morning  
> with your back to the wall
> 
> May I keep that?  
> I don't need anything else  
> May I keep that?  
> I would give everything  
> May I keep that?  
> I don't need anything else  
> I don't need anything else than this  
> I don't need anything else


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her arms and fingers tingled pleasantly wherever he touched them and continued to do so even long after he was gone.

Sansa stared at him in wonder while he tended to her arms. Ever so gently - always so gentle - Sandor applied the flower, the marigold, to her tender flesh whilst she watched him, bemused by the concentrated look on his face. At first she had been disgusted when he had put the flower, a plain little thing with orange blossoms, in his mouth, chewed a few times and then spit the mixture in his hand. But he had only laughed at her shocked expression and as soon as his “cure” came in contact with the burning streaks marring her forearms all doubts were forgotten. Sansa sighed happily when the biting pain faded away until there was nothing left but a dull throbbing.

Who would have thought that Sandor Clegane, a man feared through all seven kingdoms, had such splendid healing skills? She giggled at the thought, excusing her good mood with the half-lie that his treatment tickled when Sandor shot her a suspicious look. He said nothing, only started to wrap her arms in a clean piece of linen, but she could feel his eyes on her face. It was true though. In a way. Her arms and fingers tingled pleasantly wherever he touched them and continued to do so even long after he was gone.

Lying in her bed at night she remembered the feel of his hand around hers, when he led her through the gardens earlier. It had engulfed hers completely and not for the first time Sansa marveled how it could be that the same hand that could cause death and destruction so easily was able to fill her with a feeling of warmth, safety and belonging. 


	17. White lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He won’t let you go. You are nothing to him. There is no one here to back you up.”

**White lies**

_Do I take more than I give?_  
_It's all I've known but I don't want to roam_  
_from you for long, before I find you gone._  
  
_Oh I have my hand to take you home_  
_but I had no home to give you._

 _~_ Nomad by Fate, Chuck Ragan ~

 

 

 

 

“It will only get worse now”, Sandor warned her when they walked through the gardens a few days later and he watched her picking flowers and staring in the sky as if she could fly away from here if she just wished for it hard enough. He wondered if she would, if it were up to her. If she would leave him behind without a second thought.

One of her sleeves rode up and he spotted a thin red line on her wrist. Of course she would. The thought made his next words sound harsher than he had planned. Traitorous, traitorous heart.

“He won’t let you go. You are nothing to him. There is no one here to back you up.”

“No” she said and pulled the sleeve down, a shaky smile on her lips. “No, it will get better. You will see. I can take it.”

It was a lie. A brave little lie but he did not call her out on it because he had lied too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for another short chapter, but I really liked this part and thought it would work better alone.  
> Chuck Ragan comes pretty close to what I imagine Sandor to sound like, so give it a listen if you like (Drag my body by HotWaterMusic is totally a "Sandor-Song" in my opinion^^ ... the Last.fm Sessions version though)


	18. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gods have mercy, but she hates the seagulls. Their calls sound mocking, cruel to her and not for the first time she considers that Joffrey set them free here just to torture her. .

 

**_Miscommunication_ **

 

 _I hate seagulls and I hate being sick_  
_I hate burning my finger on the toaster and I hate nits_  
_I hate falling over_  
_I hate grazing my knee_  
_I hate picking off the scab a little bit too early_  
_I hate getting toothache_  
_I hate when it's a pisstake_  
_I hate all the mistakes I make_  
_I hate rude ignorant bastards and I hate snobbery_  
_I hate anyone who if I was serving chips wouldn't talk to me_  
_But, I have a friend_  
_With whom I like to spend_  
_Anytime I can find, with_

 _~_ I hate Seagulls, Kate Nash _~_

 

__~o~0~o~_ _

 

As the walls of the Keep are starting to close in on her, with nowhere to go, nothing to do, other haunting the arching halls and dodging glances, she takes to strolling through the gardens. But even here she feels trapped. Maybe even more so. It’s so very different from home. The scenery, the sounds, even the smell! Lush greenery and exotic flowers, making the hot and humid air heavy with their scent that mingles with the salty breeze of the sea. It’s beautiful, but artificial, like someone set a stage for the seagulls crying overhead.

Putting down the flowers she’s been picking, she takes a moment to frown up where a sleek silhouette is flitting across the sky. The Gods have mercy, but she hates the seagulls. Their calls sound mocking, cruel to her and not for the first time she considers that Joffrey set them free here just to torture her. .

 _Look!,_ they seem to say. _Look at us! How free we are! We can go wherever we want to! Fly up and higher and higher and away from all of this!_

Sighing she picks up the flowers again and walks on.

She used to hate the woods surrounding Winterfell. They seemed rather dull by day and frightened her by night when she would listen to the wolves and owls call out to each other, Old Nan’s newest tale fresh in her mind.

But the air was fresh and clear.  And the trees, while dark and gnarled, defied ice and snow and wind and arched proud above her head. They were strong, they were _the North_.

She misses home so badly.

But even if the sight of colorful flowerbeds and a glimpse of the sea from high of the Palace Gardens are not a cause of excitement to her anymore, like they were upon her arrival… it does not feel as oppressive and hard to breath as inside the Keep. And Joffrey never seems to be out here either.

Not that she has to fear anything or anyone with Sandor at her heels.

She glances over her shoulder. There he is. Two steps behind her, glaring at a couple of noble women, who are passing by in the distance - before his watchful eyes return to her and she has to turn away, an amused smile threatening to show on her face. In the beginning she felt bad about dragging him out here with her. The heat in the gardens is so much worse than in the shadows of the Keep, even in her light gowns and in his armor he must find it even more unbearable. But he never complains and when she tries to ask him about it, to apologize for being so simple minded, he just snarls at her. He seems fine as long as he can keep an eye on her and, she figures, a stroll through the sunflooded gardens, even in this heat, must be about the most comfortable thing he ever did, compared to war and battle.

She chances another glance at her loyal companion of the past weeks, clutching the flowers in her arms a bit harder.

She feels relieved he is here with her. And so terribly guilty. Because when Meryn Trant - she refuses to call him ‘Ser’, refuses to call any of _them_ ‘Ser’, any longer – brought her before the King? These short blissful moments where she thought she would be going home? She didn’t think about him. Did not think about him at all. She would have happily packed her trunk and probably remembered him only already halfway to Winterfell. Her one true friend here. The only person she trusts. How could she have done such a horrible thing? And she would have, she’s sure of it. She can be single-minded like that.  

And really, she doubts she is capable of going on without Sandor behind her, _beside_ her, anymore. He holds her steady, her watches out for her, gives her – if grudgingly – advice. She has had friends before, confidants and admirers. But none of them is here now. With her. They all left. None of them voluntary, mind you. But still. And she wouldn’t want anyone else right now. Except maybe her family, but that’s different, right? And she wouldn’t want them here with her either. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. No… if she is to leave, she must find a way to take Sandor with her.  

“It will only get worse now.”

Sandor’s voice takes her back to the present and she turns halfway, to look at him. He looks serious, which is nothing unusual. But also somewhat torn. He worries, she realizes with a start and barely catches herself in time from reaching out and putting a hand on his arm. If to reassure him or to anchor herself – she is not sure. But the thought of someone actually worrying about her wellbeing, because of _her_ and not some political scheme she as a role to play in… it makes her knees buckle for the slightest of moments. She’s glad, so glad to have hi-

“He won’t let you go. You are nothing to him. There is no one here to back you up.”

The words are harsh and so is the voice that speaks them. They make her flinch and startled she looks up at him. He’s looking at her, but not her face. He stares at the hand that meant to comfort him only a heartbeat ago and is now curled around the flowers in her arm, knuckles white. She follows his gaze. Thin red lines, faded but still visible where the sleeve of her dress rode up a few inches, snake around her wrist and up her arm.

He’s not angry at her but on her behalf and if the thought makes her smile a bit shaky when she hurries to pull down the sleeve and hide the offending wounds, she hopes he will not call her out on it.

“No” she says and tries to think of something to reassure him. “No, it will get better. You will see. I can take it.”

Word has it, that Margery Tyrell is to arrive in the next few days. Everything will get better once Joffrey’s attention is away from her and on his new betrothed instead.

Sandor does not disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw, finally a new chapter, though it does not really bring anything new. I just thought it would be interesting to see what Sansa took from this encounter... also... cryptic hints at Margery's arrival are cryptic ;)
> 
> Thanks for all the support so far, I know I'm terribly behind in responding to your comments (thank you so much, those really make my day) but I read them all and will get to them soon!


	19. Coming of the Saviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why have one if he could have two, and if she took the bruises, Margery Tyrell could keep the smiles.

 

**_Coming of the Saviour_ **

_This is the last time, I'll cry lullabies_  
_All night can't sleep I hear the floors creek_  
_I feel shadows in my room_  
_My friends find another bruise_  
_I may end up on the news_  
_I just don't know what to do_  
_God I'm calling you_  
_Send an angel send two_  
_I want a move but I'm trapped in the outer room_  
_I know you hear me clearly I'm weary_  
_Come and fill me with your power heal me_

 

 _~_ Impossible, Manafest _~_

~o~0~o~

 

Joffrey’s new betrothed arrived in a swirl of colors, flowers raining down upon her and the crowd chanting her name while Sansa stood and watched and hoped. He would let her go now. He would have to. There was no use for her anymore, he had a new bride.

But it seemed that was not enough. Why have one if he could have two, and if she took the bruises, Margery Tyrell could keep the smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, I know... but it worked so well alone.. especially after the last chapter.....sorry 
> 
> The next one will be longer


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But she’s quite good at handling Joffrey, he’ll give her that. Better than the boy’s mother. Far better than the little bird. It makes him all the more wary of her. Cunning and beauty can be dangerous if combined and he has the feeling that things will become very different very quickly around here. That can’t mean anything good for the girl, he’s sure of it. No woman in her right mind would tolerate someone like Sansa Stark beside her.

He does not like the Tyrell girl. Her smiles are too wide, her tone too sweet, her perfume too heavy and when she introduces herself to the little bird, him hovering nearby like a disgruntled shadow, she looks at his face just a moment too long, as if to prove a point. She gives him another of her wide smiles, so honest and innocent that it has to be feigned, and he can hear the words it means as clearly as if she had spoken them out loud.

_See? I’m not afraid of you. I’m not judging you. I’m a friendly and harmless person. I love everyone._

_Aye_. Who the fuck she thinks she’s gonna fool with that shit? But she’s quite good at handling Joffrey, he’ll give her that. Better than the boy’s mother. Far better than the little bird. It makes him all the more wary of her. Cunning and beauty can be dangerous if combined and he has the feeling that things will become very different very quickly around here. That can’t mean anything good for the girl, he’s sure of it. No woman in her right mind would tolerate someone like Sansa Stark beside her.

He ponders that problem while he waits for his little mistress to return, feeling very much like the stray he is as he lingers just outside the Maidenvault. Behind its walls the new queen-to-be and her flock of pattering hens are chatting away with her and leaning against the back of the royal Sept, he prepares himself for a long wait. He could leave, he supposes, and return later. Or let the Flowerknight fetch her when the talking is done and it’s time to return her to her cage. The youngest member of the King’s Guard had been quite pissed when he had refused to leave his post earlier and let the arrogant little fucker escort the girl alone. But the Tyrells are not holding his leash and the one who does, did not protest when he followed them only a few steps behind. She looked a little bit relieved even, but that could have been only wishful thinking on his part. Anyway, the fact that they bother to call her out and speak with her at all fills him with unease. What business do they have with the girl whose place they took? He has not the faintest idea what they could want with her and judging the way she had fiddled with the note on their way here, neither does she. Sighing he remembers the anxious look on her face when she entered the Keep, disappearing through the gate with a quick glance over her shoulder, back at him. No, he will not go anywhere and wait for her like the good faithful dog he is. It’s better if he stays close, if only to keep his thoughts from running wild.

He uses his time to study the two guards at the entrance, both almost meeting his own height and looking absolutely identical. They eye him distrustfully and he returns the glare before closing his eyes and forcing his muscles to relax. Staring is for big-mouthed fools who are still wet behind the ears and have yet to discover that simply looking fierce isn’t going to stop someone who has a sword and knows how to use it. Besides, he cannot solve the riddle of the Tyrell’s sudden interest in the little bird right now anyways, so he might as well take a nap. He does not get much sleep these days, his nights are filled with blue and red and the faint smell of lemon, lavender and just a ghost of pepper. It’s a welcome change to dream of something else than fire or deep black nothingness, but these dreams fill him with a different heat, waking him with his veins on fire, and leave him just as exhausted. So he welcomes the opportunity, the wall supporting his weight. Sleeping while standing is a useful skill to have and after years of service he has become quite good at it, resting with his eyes half-open and his ears alert.

That’s why he notices the page long before he is in sight. The Tyrell guards reach for their swords when the messenger rushes around the corner, short brown hair soaked with sweat, his tunic clinging to his skinny frame. He must have run most of the way which must mean the message is important. Sides heaving and struggling for breath the boy slides to a stop and he wonders what urgent business the runt could have with the Tyrells. Maybe the Queen opposes this meeting? If the girl were to let something slip about how the young lion abused her, the wedding is sure to be called off.

But when the messenger has finally stopped panting and regained his ability to speak, he does not march towards the gates of the Maidenvault but him.

“An urgent message from the Red Keep!” he announces importantly and stops a few feet away, eyes fixed on the brick behind his right ear. “The king and his council expect your immediate presence, Milord.”

Muttering a string of curses he pushes himself of the wall, towering over the little messenger who swallows nervously. “I’m no Lord,” he snarls at him out of reflex, but his mind is on other things. Growling in frustration he stalks past the boy who squeaks like a mouse, spilling meaningless apologies. He does not spare him or the guards and the walls they protect a second glance, grudgingly making his way down the road towards the heart of Red Keep.

Rubbing his neck he almost expects to feel silk under his fingers, a visible sign for the power the girl has over him. There is nothing, of course, but still. He can almost feel how her silent plea to stay and wait for her weighs him down like an iron chain as he leaves her behind. Albeit, it’s not like he can refuse a direct order from the king without raising suspicion.

His byname was not earned by chance, after all. For years they pointed the direction and he hacked through, unthinking, unminding. The Lannisters do not need to know that their loyal dog has started to think about biting their hands and takes his orders from a different master now. The little bird will have to fend for herself for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back to Sandor


	21. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been weeks since he got to use his sword for real and he hasn’t heard the familiar humming of his own blood rushing in his ears since the night of the Blackwater. And he misses all of it - the feel of Stranger tearing across the uneven battleground under him, the thrill of the chase - with such a sudden force that he almost snarls at Joffrey to hurry the fuck up and finish his senseless talking so he can go and do what he does best.

“… serious offence against the crown..”

“.. a show of strength..:”

“… sending a clear message to all those who dare to oppose their king…”

He stands in the throne room, once again resting his mind while the boy continues to prattle on, but without a wall to support him it’s so much harder to keep upright. His attention drifts from the self-important speech towards the faces of the council members, all wearing the same solemn expression, hiding their annoyance no doubt. Joffrey has always liked to hear himself talk but now that he has the whole court at his mercy, there is no stopping him. Cursing his rotten luck he shifts his weight. Gone are the times of simple and most and foremost _short_ commands. 

_Go there, kill that…_

The instruction is still the same, but cloaked in so much more words. A spectacle for the court. The brat is not even half through his monologue and he suspects he knows already pretty well where this is going. The Kingswood has always been infested with all kinds of criminals, lurking near the city gates in hope of scraps. Most of the time nobody bothers with them, they are not so stupid to make enough of a ruckus to force the guards outside King’s Landings walls, but as of late they’ve grown bolder. The Old Lions plan against Stannis’ army seems to have been quite inspiring to the outlaws. They prey on merchants and travelers, yes, but more importantly on the baggage trains that tour towards the battlefields. They feel safe between the trees, probably thinking that everyone is too busy with the war up north and as it turns out, they are right.

There are not enough men to beard them, everyone capable is fighting in the still raging war against the Young Wolf and it would be beneath a knight of the King’s Guard to fight a band of renegades and thieves. And so they will send _him_ , the King’s notorious hunting dog, to do what he does best: Flushing out his prey and hunting it down, while the knights guard their wine and supper and look important. He’s sure to fulfill his task and dispatching him will doubtlessly discourage any further attempts. _The Hound_ is not a name people like to hear linked to their doorsteps.

And he catches himself looking forward to it. It won’t take long. A few days, maybe a week. He is out of his depth lately, the girl tiring him out with her mere presence. She renders him helpless, binds him to her and robs him of his common sense. It scares him how strong her hold on him is without any action on her part. And it’s growing stronger day by day, before he knows it he is finding himself thinking, saying, _doing_ foolish things. She’s close and yet so far and out of reach, it drives him insane. His thoughts are getting harder to control, not before long and he will do something _really_ reckless. 

Yes, maybe it will help him clear his thoughts and restore his self-restraint. It’s been weeks since he got to use his sword for real and he hasn’t heard the familiar humming of his own blood rushing in his ears since the night of the Blackwater. And he misses all of it - the feel of Stranger tearing across the uneven battleground under him, the thrill of the chase - with such a sudden force that he almost snarls at Joffrey to hurry the fuck up and finish his senseless talking so he can go and do what he does best.

The distance will be good, he tells himself. And by the time he comes back, he feel like his old self again and it will be so much easier to bear her presence.

Surely nothing too bad can happen in a few days?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ominous last sentences are ominous....
> 
> it will be a while till the next chapter, I'm afraid... exams are right around the corner and after that I leave for an one-month internship with no internet excess (yeah, places like that still exist xD) Hope you don't mind!


End file.
